


Scapegoat

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Seduction, Coercion, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Sex, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Rescue Missions, Sacrifice, Sexual Coercion, Swearing, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21521281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: “I really can’t tell you how much trouble you’re in now,” Gabriel growls, “but here’s a word of advice you don’t deserve, for old times' sake. If you want any hope of surviving Satan’s anger - ofanythingsurviving his anger - I suggest you offer him something to take his frustrations out on.” And with a pointed look at the demon to Aziraphale’s left, he leaves.Warnings are for safety - Rape/Non-Con tag is for attempted sexual coercion but no more than that. GDOV tag is probably justified though.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 164





	Scapegoat

**Author's Note:**

> I've been doing a little bit to this one here and there for probably a couple of months now, and it's a weird one, but I wanted to share it. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> TW details in the end notes.

Beelzebub disappears from the airfield with a pop, but Gabriel lingers, stepping closer to Aziraphale.

“I really can’t tell you how much trouble you’re in now,” the archangel growls, “but that can wait until you get back Upstairs. We _used_ to be on the same side, so here’s a word of advice you don’t deserve, for old times' sake. If you want any hope of surviving Satan’s anger - of _anything_ surviving his anger - I suggest you offer him something to take his frustrations out on.” And with a pointed look at the demon to Aziraphale’s left, he leaves.

Aziraphale doesn’t have time to think about it as Crowley collapses to the ground and regretfully informs them that they are _fucked_. Crowley pauses time for a pep talk, on Aziraphale’s orders, then starts it again; Satan erupts from the tarmac, enormous and terrifying and hor- and with horns, and Adam tells him to _do one_. The rumbling only gets louder, and Satan looks as though he’s well on his way to lashing out and destroying the whole planet. Crowley stares, wide-eyed, as Aziraphale steps forward. He’s got nothing to bargain, nothing Satan couldn’t just _take_ , but he’s hoping the Fallen Morningstar is too angry to realise that.

“You can’t have Adam. Or the world.” And now Crowley seems to understand what’s happening, bracing himself for something terrible, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to tell him that it was never going to happen, never even crossed his mind. “But if you leave the rest alone, you can have me.”

“Yeah, I’ll- what, angel, no-”

“Done,” Satan booms, and he takes him.

Aziraphale closes his eyes as the Summoning takes hold, the scent of sulphur filling his nostrils, and hopes against all hope that Satan is, at least, a beast of his word. When he opens them, he’s in Hell. He’s never been here before, of course, but there’s a distinct feeling about it, a stench in the air - and also Satan is here, which is a dead giveaway. Satan seems to have shrunk - he supposes it’s quite impractical, to be enormous all the time in such cramped quarters - and is already clamping heavy manacles onto Aziraphale’s wrists. There are sigils carved into them; Aziraphale feels his powers leave him and knows there will be no miraculous escape.

“You’re my prisoner,” Satan snarls at him, and Aziraphale nods.

“That was the general idea, yes.”

“I’ll do what I want with you.”

“I had a feeling that might be the case,” Aziraphale agrees, trying to sound calmer than he feels. In the moment, with adrenaline flowing and not a thought in his head other than needing to save the world - needing to save _Crowley_ \- he’d been so certain of this course of action. Now, hands chained and standing before the Lord of Hell, the fear is beginning to catch up with him. He’ll never see Crowley again, he knows it; he’ll probably be tortured until he doesn’t even remember his _own_ name, let alone Crowley’s - but he’ll remember his eyes. His smile. He’s determined of that.

“Are you afraid of me, Principality?” And oh, Aziraphale is just so glad that he hasn’t called him _angel_. That’s Crowley’s name for him, that’s Crowley’s, _he’s_ Crowley’s- he’s supposed to be Hers, but he’s Crowley’s.

Only now he’s Satan’s.

“Yes,” he admits, and Satan laughs.

* * *

Crowley, on Earth, is losing his mind. He’s just lost his best friend for the second time _today_ , and he _knows_ that’s not what Gabriel intended, he intended Aziraphale to throw Crowley at Satan like one of those horrible treat stick things you give dogs to clean their teeth, and Crowley hadn’t really expected Aziraphale to _do_ it until he told Satan what he couldn’t have and then looked at Crowley. _You can have him,_ Crowley had heard him say in his mind’s eye, but Aziraphale had only shot him a regretful little smile, as if he was declining dessert, and then he’d said something entirely different. Crowley had already been preparing to hand himself over, to condemn himself to whatever Satan might like to do with his chew toys, and then suddenly the actual words the angel had spoken had hit home.

“But if you leave the rest alone, you can have me.”

“Done,” Satan had boomed, before Crowley could do more than stammer his confusion, and then both he and Aziraphale were gone. Crowley doesn’t know how much time has passed since then, but he knows it hasn’t been enough time to process what has happened. To accept it as reality. He might never be able to do that.

Around him, Crowley is aware of Anathema and Newt ushering the children away from the scene, trying to work out how they might all fit into Arthur Young’s car. He can hear Madame Tracy murmuring under her breath, sounding utterly horrified. He pays none of it any mind, until-

“I knew he was in league wi’ the devil!”

“He’s an _angel_ , you wanker,” Crowley hisses, rounding on the unfortunate Witchfinder Sergeant, “and he’s just sacrificed _everything_ for you! For all of you!” He takes a deep breath. “For _me_. Right, I’ve got to go and get him. From Satan. How hard can that be, eh? I wonder if he’d take a straight trade - bit uneven, I’m already Hell’s bitch, but-”

“Mr Crowley, you can’t,” Madame Tracy exclaims, “he’d be ever so upset-”

“Do you know what Satan’s doing to him down there? Because I don’t,” Crowley admits, “and it scares the H- the- it ssscares the _shit_ out of me. Can you _imagine-_?” But Tracy meets his eye, and he realises she’s got more idea of what might be happening than anyone on this airfield. “I have to save him.”

“Well, then, here. I don’t know if it’ll help, but… take this.” She reaches down her top and produces a small tube from her bra. “Pepper spray. Better than nothing.”

“I’ve got a bread knife, if you’d prefer it,” Anathema calls from the general direction of the car - this conversation has at no point been _quiet_ , Crowley realises - and Mr Young begins bundling the children into his back seat with renewed haste.

“Won’t help. But thanks.” He takes the pepper spray, mostly because it’s right in front of him and the motion is automatic, and then he nods politely. “If I can… I’ll get it back to you somehow.” What he means is that, all being well, he will ask Aziraphale to return it. 

He, Crowley, harbours no illusions about ever seeing the Earth’s surface again.

The Bentley is destroyed, so his only route to Head Office is the miraculous, exhausting one. He takes one last breath of the clean(ish) air of humanity’s domain, and vanishes.

* * *

Aziraphale feels sick.

"You _should_ be afraid," Satan tells him, "an angel in Hell, given over to me- you would be foolish _not_ to be afraid. But as you might have noticed from Crowley's antics, over the years, I have something of a fondness for the unusual. So here's your choice, Principality. You can remain my prisoner, part of the spoils of war… or you can become my concubine. Far less torture, if you choose that option."

"I am a soldier of God," Aziraphale replies, trying to sound more certain than he feels, "I can withstand torture."

"Oh, but of course you've never experienced _Hell's_ torturers." He snaps his fingers and a demon appears, whip in hand. "Would you like to accept my offer now, or try a sample of our skills?"

"I won't accept," Aziraphale tells him, and feels the manacles tug him forward and shift him into position. His shirt disappears - he's glad that's all - and then the first blow cracks against his back. It's excruciating; he can't help but cry out. 

"Stop," Satan orders, and the demon obeys. "Changed your mind?"

"No." Aziraphale won't do that, he'll never-

"Well, we'll see how you feel in an hour or two. As you were, demon."

Satan strolls away as the whip comes down again; again, and again, and Aziraphale's back feels as though it's on fire, as if somebody is slicing him open with his own flaming sword.

 _God help me_ , he thinks, but he has done nothing to earn her help. She probably doesn't even listen to prayers from Hell; he's not convinced She listens to Earth's prayers, either. His back is in agony, and it seems the demon is only just warming up. Aziraphale closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and tries to think of what he's here to save. He tries to think of the Earth, of Adam - but all he can seem to focus on is Crowley. 

* * *

Crowley wishes he'd picked a different part of Hell to arrive in.

He also wishes he’d arrived less exhausted. He has performed some _major_ demonic miracles, today, and he’s running on fumes. Fumes, of course, are in no short supply here in Hell, and enemies are just as plentiful.

That’s why, when Dagon and Hastur spot him, he’s dragged to Beelzebub with barely the courtesy of a knock on the head.

“Guys, what’s going on?” They didn’t even knock him _out_ , just bashed him slightly. It's humiliating. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“We’re not friendzzzz, Crowley. You’re a traitor, and we’re going to try you and exzzzecute you.”

“Ah. Yeah, well, that sounds like a lot of fun, but- actually, yeah, let’s do that. That’s better for me, actually.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well, ‘cos if you execute me before Satan gets round to punishing me personally, then I don’t have to do that bit. Win for me.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Not sure it’d be great for you, but-”

“He’s lying.” Hastur’s squinting at him suspiciously, but Dagon and Beelzebub clearly couldn’t care less what he thinks. They have a quick discussion between themselves, and then Beelzebub nods.

“Let him go. If we interfere with Lord Szzzatan’zzz punishment, it’zz uzz that will be traitorzzz.”

Hastur doesn’t look happy about that, but then a slow, terrifying smile spreads across his face. It starts with his lips, progresses to all of his teeth, and never reaches his eyes. It is not an expression that fills Crowley with optimism.

“Well, then. I’ll deliver him personally. Just so nobody gets the wrong idea.”

* * *

Satan returns sooner than Aziraphale expects, or perhaps it’s simply that the concept of time has slipped entirely from his grasp. There are no hours, no minutes, no seconds, only the crack of the whip and his own gasps of pain. He struggles against the chains, to no avail; he squeezes his eyes closed and tries to remember why he’s here. _Crowley. You’re here for Crowley._

“Changed your mind yet, Principality?” The demon lowers the whip at Satan’s words and Aziraphale feels the searing lack of sensation like a blow. It takes him a moment to recover, to catch his breath.

“No,” he tells him, “I haven’t.” He should, perhaps, give in; he is supposed to be placating Satan, after all, but there are some things he won’t do out of duty, and perhaps this way Satan will take out his rage on him, instead of the world. Instead of Crowley. That’s the whole point of all this, after all - to stop Satan destroying everything he’s fought for.

“Shame. Well, let me know if you reconsider.” He gestures to the demon at Aziraphale’s back - surely the wretched creature must be tiring by now? - and turns to walk out.

Aziraphale flinches at the first fresh blow, and tries once again to focus on why he’s here. He tries to remember Crowley.

_Just think of his eyes. Clear and bright and filled with starlight. You’re doing this for him, so he can still see the stars._

He thinks of those eyes, and for a moment, he is eerily calm, indifferent to the lash against his back.

“This traitor says you want to punish him yourself, Lord Satan.” The demon’s black eyes are glittering with malice as he hurls Crowley down at Satan’s feet; Crowley recovers himself quickly and stands, taking a single step towards Aziraphale before stopping with what looks like a great effort. The demon with the whip drops it, and though he scrambles to pick it up, he does not strike again, apparently distracted by the new arrivals.

“I have given no such orders,” Aziraphale hears Satan say, as if from a great distance, and the black-eyed demon grins.

“Then we’ll gladly do it-”

“It is a compelling idea,” Satan continues with a growl, “yes, I think I should like to deal with this traitor personally.”

Crowley reaches up and slips his sunglasses down his nose, peering over them at Aziraphale. He can see the concern there; he does his best to seem strong, to urge Crowley to flee while he’s still unbound and unharmed. But Crowley only slides his glasses back up to cover his eyes and turns to Satan.

“You like the present I got you, then?”

* * *

Crowley hopes that brief communication with Aziraphale is enough to reassure the angel that he’s truly his friend, because if his angel actually _believes_ what he’s saying then what sparse semblance of a plan he has will backfire horribly.

“Present?” Satan waves Hastur and the demon with the whip away, and they scuttle out. Crowley shoves his hands into his pockets, aiming for casual insolence.

“Well, yeah. I’ve been tempting this angel away from Heaven for six thousand years, and now he’s yours. I’d call that a decent gift. Beats a tenner on a Starbucks giftcard, which is the most I’d ever give Beelzebub.”

“He’s not mine _yet_ ,” Satan tells him, “he’s refusing to become my concubine.” There’s a surly twist to his mouth, but he doesn’t sound as displeased as he had a moment earlier. Crowley presses his advantage.

“Well, I convinced him he should turn on Heaven, let’s see if I can’t sway him to you.” He hesitates, just for a second, just long enough for Satan to give the slightest of thoughtful nods, and then he strides over to clasp Aziraphale’s hands in both of his own.

“ _Bless it_ , angel, why wouldn’t you just agree so he can _let you out of those chains?”_ He feels Aziraphale’s hands twitch, feels fingers work between his own, and hopes like - well, like _Earth_ \- that Aziraphale has understood him. He steps back, spreads his empty hands invitingly. “Then you can get on with the fun bit.”

“You’re- you think I should?” Either Aziraphale hasn’t understood him at all, or he’s doing a masterful job of pretending he hasn’t. Crowley hopes it’s the latter.

“ _Bless it all_ , angel, what have I just said?”

“He- I- well- I suppose-” The angel turns towards the Fallen Morningstar, bites his lip, and sighs. “They do _chafe_ a bit, L- Lord Satan.” He pauses, just for a beat, just long enough for Crowley to wonder what he’s thinking. _“Darling,”_ he adds, but he’s not looking at Satan any more.

Satan fails to notice that crucial detail - at least, it feels crucial to Crowley - and with a wave of his hand the chains are dismissed. Aziraphale stumbles, and Crowley reaches out to steady him.

“Come on, Lord Satan doesn’t want to see your weakness.” Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley can feel his lips moving. He keeps his grip on his arms and stays well clear of his hands, still clasped together as they had been in the chains. If he was Aziraphale just now, he would be tempted to lash out, and there's no need to make that easier for him.

“Delightful,” Satan purred, “but I don’t need to share.”

He flicks his hand, and Crowley flies across the room - he doesn’t bother trying to convince himself that he’s surprised by this turn of events - with just enough time to hope that Aziraphale knows how to get out. Then he hits the wall, and everything goes a bit squiggly.

* * *

Aziraphale flinches as Crowley goes crashing into the wall, but Satan is already advancing on him with a hungry smirk. He takes one step sideways, just to make sure that Crowley’s safely behind him, and then he brings up the tiny object Crowley pressed into his hands.

 _Bless it,_ he’d said, and as soon as Aziraphale had been out of his power-numbing chains, he had. He’d been anxious about performing a blessing while Crowley was wrapped protectively around him, but it seemed safer than doing it openly, where Satan could see.

“The deal’s off,” he tells him now, and depresses the little plunger to unleash a holy vapour directly into Satan’s eyes. The former Morningstar screams, and sizzles, and claws at his own face, but it’s only a tiny bit of Holy Water and that can’t distract him for long.

Aziraphale grabs Crowley and prepares to run for his life.

“You’re going to let me go, and you’re not going to harm Adam or the world or any of us ever again.”

“Get out!” Satan roars, and that’s enough of an agreement to be binding. Satan’s not the only one prepared to negotiate with someone in agony, after all.

“Good,” Aziraphale notes, and gathers all his strength to blast himself and Crowley back out of Hell.

* * *

Crowley wakes to the smell of clean country air and burning motor oil. He raises his head to find his vision obscured by a pair of shoes. He knows the shoes. They are Aziraphale’s shoes, and he’s fairly certain they’re on Aziraphale’s feet.

“Why do people keep hitting me in the head?” He groans, and the shoes move swiftly away from him before turning.

“Crowley! You’re awake- and technically, your head hit the wall.”

“The wall hit _me_ ,” Crowley tells him, entirely aware that it doesn’t make any difference or any sense, and hauls himself off the ground so he can sit up and look at his angel properly. “You got us out?”

“I rather think _you_ did, actually,” Aziraphale corrects him gently. “You brought me the… the… what was it you called it?”

“Pepper spray,” Madame Tracy tells him, and Crowley realises she's still there, clinging to Sergeant Shadwell’s arm. “We’ll leave you to it, dear, if he’s all right. If we hurry, we can catch up with those nice young people for a cup of tea.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you for waiting with me. You go and get some tea.”

They leave while Crowley’s still trying to process where he is, and moreover the fact that he is, somehow, still alive. Aziraphale helps him to his feet and then, to Crowley’s astonishment, crushes him into a hug. He’s miracled himself up a new shirt, Crowley notices, and as he doesn’t flinch when Crowley’s hand brushes the back of the fabric he has to assume that the angel has fixed up his back, as well.

“You could have woken me up,” he grumbles, because he doesn’t know how to thank him or, better yet, to ask him what the H- what _on Earth_ he thought he was doing.

“Well, it’s best to be careful with head injuries-”

“What were you _thinking_ , angel?”

"I- ah-"

"You _know_ what Gabriel meant, why didn't you just hand me over? I'd have gone-"

"I know you would!" Aziraphale splutters furiously. “That’s why I- and then you came straight down after me and wasted my sacrifice - what were _you_ thinking?”

“I was thinking _I’d better get my angel out of Hell_ -”

“Well, _so was I_.”

Crowley stares at him for a moment, wondering if that might help it make sense, but it doesn’t.

“‘M not an angel,” he mumbles, when it finally dawns on him who Aziraphale is referring to.

“Well, neither am I. Not any more.” Aziraphale sighs. “Whatever we are, we’re the same, now. On our own side. I suppose I’m just so used to thinking of myself as an angel… and you _were_ one.”

“That was a long time ago,” Crowley reminds him, not for the first time in the last few days, and Aziraphale shrugs.

“I wanted to keep _you_ out of Hell. That’s all. I never would have done what Gabriel wanted.”

“You could Fall, saying things like that-”

“Crowley, would you stop putting walls up and _listen to me_?”

Crowley stops. He meets Aziraphale’s eyes and waits for whatever revelation the angel thinks justifies the monumental risk he took in allowing himself to be taken to Hell.

“I will never throw you to the wolves to save myself. To save the _world,_ even. Never again. I’ve spent too long trying to protect myself at your expense, and for what?” He gestures around at the empty airbase. “You’re the only thing that matters, Crowley. I’d give myself to Hell a million times before I ever stood back and gave them you.”

“I- wh-?”

“There’s no obligation here,” Aziraphale adds hurriedly, “don’t feel like you have to respond-”

“Angel, why?” He shakes his head. “Why would you do that for me? Why _did_ you?”

“Because you’re my best friend.” The angel hesitates. “Because I love you, Crowley. And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say it.”

“I- y- ngk.”

“I understand, of course, if- if you don’t feel the same way. Or if I’m going too fast-”

“Ngk,” Crowley tries again, even less eloquently than before.

“It’s all right, Crowley. You don’t owe me anything.”

“No,” Crowley agrees, the moment his voice will work again. “I owe you _everything_. But that has nothing to do with- with-”

“Really, Crowley, you don’t-”

 _“This,”_ Crowley manages at last, and he presses his wordless lips to Aziraphale’s.

For a moment, as Aziraphale tenses, Crowley thinks that he’s misread the situation. That he’s going too fast again. And then, unbelievably, Aziraphale kisses him back.

* * *

Aziraphale means everything he’s said, and he’s known how Crowley feels about him for almost a century, but somehow the kiss still takes him by surprise. He hesitates, at first, afraid that Crowley feels he _has_ to kiss him, _has_ to love him back. And then he remembers that Crowley has specifically told him that’s not the case; he remembers the hundreds, perhaps thousands of occasions where Crowley has shown him love but been prevented from naming it. He kisses back. He feels the demon’s arms slip around him and he understands, suddenly, why humans get so excited about all of this. It really is quite something, having his demon so close, having his best friend wrapped around him.

“Crowley,” he murmurs fondly, breaking the kiss by a fraction of an inch, and the demon recoils.

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He drags him back in for another kiss, just a brief press of lips. “I was only going to suggest that we might go home. It’s been rather a long day-” But Crowley was looking at him with an expression of such soft sympathy that he cut himself off.

“Angel, the shop - it burned, remember?” He does remember, now; Crowley told him earlier, but he’s had rather a lot on his mind since then. “Stay at my place, if you like.”

Aziraphale can see the anxiety and vulnerability in Crowley’s eyes - he must have lost his sunglasses somewhere in Hell - but there’s no need for it. Aziraphale would follow Crowley to much worse places than Mayfair.

“Thank you, my dear, I’d love to. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Crowley shakes his head. “I’m just glad to have you back. You must be exhausted, I’ll have you home in no- oh.” Aziraphale follows the direction of his gaze towards the remains of the Bentley; they’ve both made sacrifices today.

“We’ll find a bus stop,” he assures him, “and cuddle up to stay warm while we wait.”

“That sounds nice,” Crowley admits, and Aziraphale has to agree. 

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Rape/Non-Con - attempts to make a character become Satan's concubine by torturing them until they say yes (which is absolutely not how consent works)
> 
> TW: Graphic Depiction of Violence - characters are whipped, knocked on the head, thrown at walls and knocked out. The whipping is probably the most graphic, focusing on the experience as opposed to the appearance of the wounds.
> 
> Also, I imagine there's still quite a lot of healing to work through after this fic ends but I'm leaving them to it. Sorry!


End file.
